The Summoner
by Incogito
Summary: A reimagining of my original story. Our hero finds himself in a bad way after defeating Jack of Blades for the second time, and wishes to live a quite life in Snowspire, or so it seems... Rated T for future chapters.
1. Prologue

**The Summoner**

_Prologue_

The pain was unbearable. The searing heat, scorched bone, and roasted flesh itself was almost too much for him. Yet the mask, remained untouched by the rain of fire that had descended…

Stumbling, crawling, groping, He pulled himself towards the massive gate. But it was too much. Why should he bother? What was possibly left for him beyond those ancient walls? His pregnant wife, Lady Sonya? His wife, who stilled refused to leave the refuge? His child, that may not be his? The Guild? In all its years, it still remained arrogant - A place for the dreamiest to pursue foolish attempts at chivalry. The only staying power for Him had been his savior, and later, betrayer in all things…

But yet, was this remorse for killing him? Pity for understanding only too well the burdens his master placed upon him? Would it be worth the risk, to crawl burnt and broken, yet still victorious through the Bronze Gate, and to the heroes waiting beyond, only to possibly betray his friends at a later date? Would it be such a sin, to reside in his remote hut above the village of Snowspire, to rest and recuperate, even while planning what could be the end of the world? What would his wife think? Or the people of Bowerstone? No, it was not worth that much…

Yet, he still found himself moving ever forwards, a new resolution upon him, a plan already beginning to formulate, a new power waiting for him to cease, a new tale waiting to be weaved…

* * *

_**Authors Notes:**  
I lost the previous documents and wasn't particularly happy with them anyway. This is the same story, just told differently... More will follow shortly._


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

"_**The dragon is slain, the hero emerges. Yet, still is this world doomed. No man can save it, not even the first Archon himself."**_

**-- Last known words of The Druid, savior of Albion.**

Ancient, gnarled fingers swirled majestically above an even older skeleton, a collection of old bones thrown together on the silken sheets below. Trails of electricity lazily danced behind the circling fingers, fingers with black tips, and streaks of blue running upwards upon twisted, un-imaginably thin arms. The arms led to a twisted torso, the once proud frame deformed and sunken, straining to hold the heavy head above it upright… The face upon the head, covered in ancient, cruel scars, showed a wisdom and strength of mind not seen for longer than written history… Yet, the eyes, dimmed by time, still remained focused on the one thing above its hands, a cold, delicately ornate object. Something that only the oldest nightmares began to imagine, something that once housed something so terrible, not even death could silence its fury.

The frame shuddered, then convulsed, as a dim blue light forced its way from the clawed fingers, glowing ever brighter, and ascending into the mask above. Slowly, ever so slowly, the faintest whisper of a new energy flowed from the relic, this willpower even dimmer than that of the ancient wizard still convulsing below, yet still it crept forwards, slithering in-between the other magic, pausing above the rotten corpse, sliding into it…

Suddenly, the wizard collapsed, and the bluish haze gathering around his broken form flickered, dieing… Yet, the other energy pursued its growth, slowly spreading from one end of the skeleton to the other, becoming brighter, stronger, more alive. Then, with the slightest hissing, muscles first started to grow on the ancient bones, creeping, crawling from one to another, crawling its way along the disintegrating corpse… The old wizard raised his weary head, his old eyes slowly focusing on the miracle before him as a droplet of sweat rolled down the crooked nose, hitting the wooden floor with a splash…

Even still, the miracle continued. First a heart, then two lungs brought themselves into the corpse's chest cavity, growing with not so much as a hiss, but rather a crackling… Then, layers of skin – each paler than the last, stretched themselves over the almost-human man, now growing silently amongst the regenerating organs. But then, at the peak of its power, the spell so many years in the weaving, dissipated with a loud hiss, Leaving the room wrought with tension, the man deathly silent…

The man was breathing.

_**Authors Notes:**_

_I know, this is still a little short, however I am still very much introducing the storyline, and don't want to combine too many chapters as I feel it breaks the atmosphere. Feel free to comment._


End file.
